⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ I rub my eyes too much Maybe I loved you because I didn't rub them enough

There is no autumn in my country And I know She knows Because the rain, it cries with me In my quiet lonely shivering sorrow That I...

I make twin braids at the front of my hair so that you might use them as reigns to guide me to safety Where there are sailboats, and...

What would you say if I were to be fixed?

Where would you build your home? Mine, In a heart upon a hill And so with every beat I would find a new room To its left With distant...

Counting the shapes traced along my spine, I fall to sleep Distantly, I begin to hear the soft shuffling of the railway line The train...

April has brought me home this summer evening. There is a huge field of sunflowers Just beyond my garden; And over it are parasails...

My heart, It carries the hem of yours Threaded to its cottony pillow Where it teaches my skin its name, and yours; I love you as the sand...

My mirrors are windows reflecting the marbled galaxies of my eyes; It amuses me to look across into them And see a station-full of people...

tonight the moon is the colour of streetlamps in the night we surface; far far below it from underneath warm currents of the sea that...

my heart is as sour as a poet's should be as sour as poetry It drips of the meagre sounds of its own reflection the stuttering gasp of...

The bulbs hold in their inky hands Lights with dimly-lit eyes Stalking lanterns hanging off of iffy wallpapers...

Bells toll in the distance of perhaps a thousand miles, But I hear them Through the threads I have painted for years...

I place my feet in the crevice of jute fibres, As we walk above the city...

As we lay over blankets of churning skies, The Sun lays ink over pools rippled by Verses of the Moon And I take a sip The taste is like...

Did you paint these clouds with the white paper cranes that kissed me, As a child to yellow orchids in my sleep?

The Milk Maid sits on the prancing shores of the Waning Moon...

Wooden oars whisper to ears curtained by loose vines of hair, Threading together hushed secrets of the clouds

The strands of my hair evaporate into spirited bubbles That evanescently cling to the fabric of my curtains;

If you must leave then wipe not that tear, Rather preserve it within that tomb of resin Which you yourself have caulked with roses;